Shatter
by Victoria LeRoux
Summary: Recovery is never just physical. No slash.


This is another little Avenger fic, just posting to before I go to the rodeo.  
>Written for Allison, who wanted an hc fic that was less physical than I normally do, and who specifically requested some Thor and angry Clint.  
>Summary: Recovery is never just physical.<br>Characters: Clint and Thor, no slash  
>Rated for language and the abuse of innocent lab materials.<br>Also entitled "the one where they beat shit up"  
>As always, thank you to the lovely force that makes up the Beta Branch. We're not exclusive by any means, so take a peek if you're interested. The link's on Alex Kade's profile!<p>

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><p>He heard Clint before he saw him.<p>

_Crash_. "Damn robots!" _Thunk_. "Damn S.H.I.E.L.D.." _Bang. _"Damn Fury with his –" _Clang._ "-goddamn Avengers Initiative."

Thor paused in the doorway to watch a wild Barton tear apart one of Tony's labs.

"I hate this!" the archer snarled to the empty room, before he picked up what looked like the top half of Tony's laptop and lobbed it at the wall. The sharpshooter turned away before the bang of impact and kicked over one of Stark's more comfortable chairs. "I hate this!"

Barton hadn't acted right since they'd gotten back from the lab. He'd been too quiet when Banner had bandaged his bruised ribs. He was too loud when the doctor refused to release Natasha and Stark. He was too… controlled during the debriefing. Natasha and Stark would have noticed the warning signs if Banner hadn't locked them in the side room of his lab so they could rest. He had, though, and that's why it was Thor who had curiously followed the sounds of destruction.

Still, if Thor requested for Jarvis to alert Tony, Thor knew he would come. Stark would probably lean against the doorway, arms crossed nonchalantly until he nearly fumbled his crutches. The Iron Man would try to bully his way into Barton's the room, then he'd blurt out, "You do realize you're paying for this, right?" Then the two of them would exchange a slew of insults until they were both laughing, and the next day, Tony would quietly pay for the new renovations without mentioning the break down until the pain and agony had bled away in favor of sheepish remembrance and the ability to withstand good-natured ribbing.

"Fuck!" Clint yelled before drawing his bow and throwing it against the television that must have been mounted on the wall at some point. There was a crack as the two contacted, and then Barton was across the room, stomping on them both. They both cracked under the pressure, and when they finally snapped into different jagged pieces, Barton continued to stomp and stomp on them until he tripped and nearly fell to the ground.

If Thor requested for Jarvis to alert him, he knew Rogers would come. He'd come quietly into the room and go right up to Clint, stilling his rampage with a steely grip on the archer's arm. "Clint," he'd say, then sigh as he took in all the damage, "We're fine." When Barton looked pointedly at the man's still healing collarbone and opened his mouth to make a pointed, venomous remark, Rogers would repeat his statement. "Clint, we're _fine,_" he'd stress the last word so the archer would hear the echoed meaning – we're _alive_. There would be another pause, in which the archer would probably kick the desk, and then his whole body would slump like a punctured balloon, drained of the anger and not able to find the words to protest when Steve dragged him out to dinner.

There was a sudden grunt, followed by the sudden, soft sound of something detonating. Thor looked on as the wooden desk shattered when another explosive arrow detonated. Barton yanked clear a long, thick piece of splintered wood and wielded it like a club, slamming it indiscriminately into another monitor and then into some glass awards Tony had left in the room, using hard, heavy swings. He must have been too close to the explosion because a long sliver of wood stuck out of his arm and a thin line of blood trickled between his fingers.

Thor could ask Jarvis to alert Banner, who would approach cautiously but never hesitantly as he used the process of bandaging Clint's arm to stop the rampage. He could request Coulson, who would let loose a long-suffering sigh before beginning to reason calmly with Clint from the doorway.

He could call Natasha, who was in the infirmary but would come anyway so she could offer a one-sided sparring session that she might even let Clint win. Or Hill, who would let loose a slew of quiet curses before she started talking about inane topics as the marksman destroyed stuff. Or Fury, who would try to argue him out of it before eventually ordering him to stop. Or even Pepper, who would offer Clint the means to procure himself a new bow when he was done venting and then hand over the keys to one of Tony's cars.

"I can't do this," Clint grunted suddenly as another splinter flew up to trace a bloody line across his cheek. _"I can't deal with this."_

Then Clint let loose a pure howl, one that was both wordless and furious, before throwing his stump of pulverized wood at the shattered television and storming over to the table. He kicked the metal table over and yanked loose a metal leg. Clint let out a sob as he slammed the rod into the wall before tugging it loose so he could smack the window, which stood no chance against his anger.

He could have summoned anyone. Instead Thor entered the room, procured a table leg of his own, and stalked over to the first pile of junk he saw so he could begin to pound it into pieces.

He well understood the rage of lost battles and wounded comrades. That was why he said nothing when he saw Barton pause at the interruption that wasn't really an interruption, for he too well understood the rage that threatened to boil over at a world that seemed to do nothing but wrong.

They worked in tandem for a time, moving around to convert Tony's formerly pristine lab into rubble. After a few minutes, they gathered everything in the center of the room so they could destroy it all completely.

Eventually, they just… quit.

A panting Barton glared at the room. The once-treasured, later deserted, lab was now nothing more than four battered white walls surrounding a piece of wreckage. Barton tossed his metal pole onto the top of the pile, grinning lopsidedly.

"Good," he said at last, breaking the silence born of the aftermath of violence and clamor.

Thor looked carefully at Barton. The man's shirt was torn, his shoes shredded, his pants covered in speckles of blood. His breath was harsh and heavy, and his eyes were dark with exhaustion.

"Good," Thor agreed.

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><p>Reviews are, as always, appreciated and adored.<p> 


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